


the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

by outruntheavalanche



Series: Author's Favorites [15]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Aftermath of Abduction, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, F/F, Jealousy, Madness, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Choking, Unreliable Narrator, Vaginal Fingering, dark themes, erotic asphyxiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-07-25 18:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16203671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outruntheavalanche/pseuds/outruntheavalanche
Summary: “How long have I been sleeping?” Carlotta asked, bitterly, curling her fists in the duvet.“Nearly the whole day,” said Christine.“And why areyouhere, little rat?” Carlotta hissed.“You said you’d seen a ghost,” Christine said.





	the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BiffElderberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiffElderberry/gifts).



> I kind of mashed up Leroux and Lloyd Webber a little bit into...this. (This also isn't what we were matched on, but I couldn't shake the idea of Carlotta and Christine.)
> 
> I'm not sure I'd exactly consider this dubious consent, but since I'm not sure I figure I might as well warn for it just to be safe.
> 
> As ever, thanks to [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/profile)[**blastellanos**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/) for the quick beta.
> 
> Title from "Once Upon a Dream," from _Sleeping Beauty_.

Carlotta Guidicelli stepped out of the horse-drawn carriage—sent to fetch her courtesy of messieurs André and Firmin—and lifted her head, taking a deep breath of crisp autumn air. Ubaldo lifted her hand in his and pressed thick, wet lips against her knuckles, his wiry whiskers tickling her skin unpleasantly. Carlotta snatched her hand away from him and quickly slid her glove back on her hand. A servant girl rushed out of the opera house and grabbed Carlotta’s luggage by the handles.

“I’m home,” Carlotta announced, slipping her fox stole around her shoulders. “I’m finally home again.”

“The ghost has been quiet since you’ve been gone, _signora_ ,” the servant girl gushed, ducking her head in reverence and curtseying before Carlotta. The cap atop her head slipped and Carlotta caught a glimpse of burnished copper curls, much like her own.

“There’ll be no more talk of ghosts in _La Carlotta’s_ presence, Delphine,” Ubaldo reprimanded the girl sternly, wagging a finger at her. “Signora Guidicelli does not fancy ghost stories.”

“Pardon me, _signora_ ,” the girl said, ducking her head again, pale cheeks rouging with her shame.

“Think nothing of it, Delphine,” Carlotta said, magnanimously. She turned to Ubaldo. “Come, Ubaldo. Let us reclaim our rightful place in this madhouse.” She waved a gloved hand at the facade of the _Opéra Populaire_.

Ubaldo took her by the hand and the two of them, flanked by Carlotta’s loyal retinue of servants and maiden girls, marched up the steps of the _Opera Populaire_.

 

 

 

Carlotta stood in the doorway of her dressing suite and savored the familiar sights and smells. Everything was as she’d left it, but with the simple exception of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. When she’d left, the mirror had been kept in the corner of her room, half-hidden by a length of gauze. Now, it stood proudly against the wall opposite the armoire. 

Carlotta grasped the mirror by its edges and dragged it back into place in the darkest corner of her suite. She found a long, red scarf and draped it over the mirror. 

_There._ Carlotta stood back to examine her handiwork.

“ _Carlottaaa . . ._ ”

The diva lifted her head and peered about, but saw no one in the room with her. Perhaps it was Ubaldo or one of her girls, playing a trick on her. 

“Ubaldo?” she called out.

The hissing voice did not respond and Carlotta put it out of her mind. Firmin and André were throwing a gala in honor of her return. It was time to summon her attendants to help her ready. 

The mirror wobbled against the wall but Carlotta paid it no mind. It was probably rats. She’d send the rat-catcher after the vile little vermin when she had a moment to spare.

 

 

 

Carlotta’s attendants were just putting the finishing touches on her gown. She felt and looked like a queen, copper ringlets piled high atop her head. She was clad in a fine gown of raw gold silk that had been seeded with tiny pearls, and a ruby-and-pearl pendant nestled between her ample bosom to complete the look. Certainly, no man would have eyes for anyone else tonight, if Carlotta could help it.

Carlotta’s reintroduction to society after her “illness” was to be a grand event. As she surveyed her image in the mirror, she felt like a queen. And, soon, this queen would once again command and cajole her loyal subjects. 

Carlotta sat at her vanity, carefully tucking a few stray auburn curls into place when a sudden loud crash and the sound of shattering glass startled Carlotta from her seat. 

Carlotta spun around to find the mirror lying on the floor in pieces.

“Vermin,” she muttered, staring scornfully at the jagged edges of the broken mirror.

What good was a rat-catcher if he did not catch any rats?

“ _Carlotta . . ._ ”

That voice again! Carlotta looked about frantically, but obviously there was no one else in her rooms. And surely it couldn’t have been the damned Opera Ghost. He’d neither been seen or heard from since her abrupt departure months ago. 

Carlotta had left “to convalesce at her summer home on the French Riviera,” or so the official explanation went.

Suddenly, all the candles flickered as if someone—a ghost, perhaps—had let out a great breath. But when Carlotta glanced about, still she saw no one. 

Then her eyes were drawn to that mirror. Carlotta got up, gathered her skirts, and went to examine it. Pieces of jagged glass lay scattered about like diamonds, winking and glinting evilly, as if they were alive. 

A chill swept through her chambers then, drawing goosebumps. Carlotta shivered and drew away from the broken glass, which shimmered in the dim candlelight. She would call for her maiden to come sweep up, in a moment. 

Carlotta settled back in front of her vanity and began to powder her nose when she felt—

Oh, God, it felt like a long, broken _fingernail_ dragging down the back of her neck. 

Whirling around, Carlotta stared into a pair of burning white-hot embers for eyes, set into cavernous black pits. 

The face—

The creature that gazed down at her had no face. It was a skull, all the flesh having been stripped away as if dipped in acid. 

Carlotta began to scream and scream and scream—

 

 

 

(Those who heard her terrified cries would go on to say it had been the performance of a lifetime.)

 

 

 

When Carlotta roused from the black depths of unconsciousness, she was resting comfortably in a bed that was not her own. 

And there was someone beside her, shrouded in darkness, dipping a cloth into a pitcher of water. 

“You had quite a scare,” came the soft, accented voice of her nemesis. 

Her _enemy_ , the usurper, Christine Daaé!

Carlotta began to thrash, tossing off a down-filled duvet, as Christine set the pitcher down on an end-table beside her bed. She dropped the wet cloth back in the pitcher.

“You told them you saw a ghost,” Christine continued, resting her hands in her lap. “Of course there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Carlotta stared at her, unblinking. Christine looked lovely as usual, her blond curls pinned away from her face, as pretty and pale as a porcelain doll. 

Carlotta hated her, of course. 

“Where is Ubaldo? Where is Delphine?” Carlotta tugged the duvet back over her lap.

“You sent Delphine away last night, in your fever,” Christine said. “And Ubaldo . . . Well, he hasn’t been around all day.”

“How long have I been sleeping?” Carlotta asked, bitterly, curling her fists in the duvet.

“Nearly the whole day,” said Christine.

“And why are _you_ here, little rat?” Carlotta hissed.

“You said you’d seen a ghost,” Christine said.

“You said that already,” Carlotta muttered.

“A fleshless skull with yellow flames for eyes,” she continued on. “Set into sunken pits.”

“That is what I saw,” Carlotta said, “but it was nothing more than a dream, I’m sure.”

“A dream?” Christine sounded almost _amused_. She dragged her chair closer to Carlotta’s bedside. Before Carlotta was even aware, Christine reached out and snagged her hand, tightening her fingers in a viselike grip. “The ghost. What did he say? Did he speak of me?”

“Of course he didn’t speak of you,” Carlotta spat, jerking her hand out of Christine’s grip. “Why should he have wondered after a mere scrap of a girl when he had _La Carlotta_ herself?”

Christine’s sky-blue eyes flashed in the flickering candlelight and, for a moment, Carlotta was reminded of burning, smoldering embers for eyes.

“He did not ask for me?” Christine sounded almost forlorn, almost disappointed.

“It was a _dream_ , you fool,” Carlotta hissed. “Just a dream and nothing more.”

“It was _not_ a dream,” Christine cried out, her voice thick with passion. She snatched Carlotta’s hand again, squeezing painfully. “The Opera Ghost really exists. You’ve seen him too. But he must have deemed you unworthy. He must have . . .”

Christine trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished, sounding troubled.

“Unworthy! Pah!” Carlotta tried to tug her hand back but Christine wouldn’t let go. “There is none as worthy as me.”

Christine flicked her eyes back on Carlotta. They’d gone blank, as if Christine’s soul had fled her body and all that was left was an empty shell.

“He is my master. My Angel,” Christine said, a mad fervor to her voice. “He spared you.”

Carlotta finally twisted her hand out of Christine’s and rubbed the ache away. “Yes, he did,” she agreed, frowning deeply. “Why should that matter?”

Christine reached up and unpinned her hair, letting the gold ringlets cascade over her shoulders. Carlotta could see her blue eyes were fever-bright, and she remembered hearing that blue flames burned the hottest.

Had the little ballet rat gone mad in Carlotta’s absence? 

Christine bridged the gap between them, moving to fit herself in the empty space beside Carlotta on the bed. 

Carlotta tried to jerk away from her, but Christine held up a hand to stop her.

“We’ve both been in the presence of the Angel,” Christine gasped, sounding choked. “And lived to tell the tale.”

Carlotta felt Christine’s hands grasping for her, fingers curling in her nightgown. She still wasn’t quite sure what was happening, only that Christine seemed seized by some madness within. 

Carlotta had seen what she’d seen and even then, she thought Christine was a little fool. 

Despite Christine’s smaller stature and her lithe dancer’s body, she managed to pin Carlotta against the mattress. She loomed over Carlotta, her flaxen curls brushing lightly against her cheek like cobwebs. 

Carlotta shivered. 

“My Angel hasn’t called for me in some time,” Christine prattled on. “Not since my . . . Not since Raoul. But he’s called on _you_. Your eyes have seen his magnificence. Your ears have heard his music.”

“You’re _mad_ ,” Carlotta cried, trying to push Christine away. 

“Will you deny me so cruelly?” Christine wailed.

Carlotta stopped fighting against her and let Christine sag against her, her small frame rattling with sobs. 

The diva was surprised to find she pitied the girl. 

“Come, come,” Carlotta soothed, patting Christine’s curls. 

Christine’s sobs dissolved into hiccups, and finally she went quiet. Carlotta moved her hand away from Christine’s hair and she sat up, focusing those bright blue eyes Carlotta’s way. 

“Did he sing to you,” Christine asked, dreamily. “He has the loveliest voice.”

Those blue eyes blazed right into Carlotta’s very soul, like embers . . . Like those yellow eyes that burned like flames. 

“I don’t remember,” Carlotta said, and it was the truth. She didn’t remember if the Angel, as Christine called the _thing_ that came to her chambers, had sung to her. 

What little she _did_ remember was hazy, as if viewed through a fine mist or a gauzy curtain. She couldn’t be certain what was fact and what was the fiction of her fevered mind.

Christine’s hand came to rest on her knee. Carlotta was very aware of it, pushing under the flowing silk of her dressing gown.

She knew she ought to protest but she couldn’t find her voice. Nor did she want to, really. 

It had been far too long since Carlotta was last touched. She didn’t let Ubaldo touch her; he wasn’t worthy of indulging in her body. 

And neither was Christine, the simpering fool that she was. But Carlotta had felt off-balance the entire night, had _felt_ off-balance since she returned to the opera house. 

Somehow, allowing Christine to push her hand under her gown was the most normal thing that had happened to her in months.

Carlotta parted her legs and slid the skirt of her dressing gown up.

Christine gazed at her, her eyes glittering brightly. 

Carlotta gasped as Christine’s fingers teased between her thighs, brushing against her already-slick folds, parting them like petals.

“Did he touch you?” came Christine’s voice, a soft susurrus. “Did he touch you like this?”

Carlotta tried not to feel, tried to block out what Christine’s nimble fingers were doing to her body—it was wrong, it was a sin—and yet . . . She could feel herself responding, anyway. She could feel her heartbeat racing and her blood soaring through her veins. 

Carlotta felt—

Why, she felt as if here body were singing. 

“Yes,” she said, though she didn’t remember, “he did. Just like this.”

Surely the Angel of Music would forgive Carlotta her lie to have Christine keep touching her. 

Carlotta fervently hoped Christine would keep touching her. She didn’t even _like_ Christine—hated her, despised her, really—but she craved this. She _needed_ Christine’s gentle touch, as if seeking out permission through the light, tentative strokes. It was soothing, the gentle movements of Christine's fingers smoothing away some rough, coarse part of her.

Carlotta let her head fall back against her pillow and Christine settled against her side, her hand still working between her legs. There was a rustle of fabric and Carlotta popped one eye open to watch Christine slide her hand under her own gown. 

Her fingers made thick, wet sounds and Carlotta realized Christine had become aroused through pleasuring _La Carlotta_.

Carlotta would have laughed and bit off some smug retort had she not had Christine’s long, cool, thin fingers probing her quim.

Christine’s touch was cold, her skin as chilly as a corpse’s. 

And, once again, Carlotta was reminded of the Opera Ghost, of his yellow gaslamp eyes and grinning, fleshless skull.

He _had_ touched her like this, his skeletal fingers prodding and poking at her with far less tenderness than Christine’s. 

Or perhaps it had all been a dream, Carlotta couldn’t be sure.

The pad of Christine’s thumb brushed over her most sensitive parts and Carlotta jerked her hips against her fingers. Christine probed deeper and deeper, as if searching for something she could find only within Carlotta.

“Will you sing for me, _La Carlotta_?” Christine asked in a sing-song, childlike tone. She tilted her head and her curls cascaded over her shoulder. Her dressing gown slipped down to reveal more of her pale, milky skin.

Carlotta opened her mouth to reply but a spasm racked her body, stealing her magnificent, golden voice. Carlotta’s eyelashes fluttered over her cheeks and her skin misted with sweat. 

She reached out, closing her hand around Christine’s wrist. 

Christine lifted her unoccupied hand and wrapped her fingers loosely over Carlotta’s throat. 

She pressed down slowly, lightly. 

Her eyes had taken on that odd glow once more. 

“I should steal your voice so that my darling Angel has no one to listen to but me,” said Christine, queerly, pressing her fingers down over Carlotta’s throat more and more. 

Carlotta thrashed against her, weakly, but her body was not her own. She was like a puppet on strings that were being plucked by an invisible hand. 

Another spasm racked her body without warning, and Carlotta let out a harsh, choked cry, as wave after wave of molten pleasure crashed into her and swept overhead. Carlotta felt as if she had been lit on fire from the inside, and flames were consuming her down to her very soul. 

Christine’s fingers had turned cruel and were working even more rapidly, sliding past the clenching of Carlotta’s muscles at a fevered pace, prolonging her torture. Carlotta could find neither relief nor breath. 

She could feel a lightness coming over her then, as if a shroud had been drawn over her head. 

Perhaps Christine must have sensed this, because only then—only when Carlotta began to grow faint—did she let up the hand ringed around her throat. 

She carefully slid her other hand from between Carlotta’s legs and glanced down at it, frowning, before wiping it on Carlotta’s dressing gown.

“I must go,” Christine spat out, jerking away from her.

Carlotta blinked her eyes open, slowly, the gauze of confusion falling away. Everything felt clearer and louder and brighter. Carlotta no longer felt like a marionette dancing on the end of somebody else’s strings.

Christine slid out of bed and tugged her gown tightly around her. She cinched the sash around her waist, fluffed her blond hair and scurried out of the room like a rat.

Carlotta pulled her skirts back down over her damp thighs. 

She wondered if she’d come to regret returning to the _Opéra Populaire_ after all.


End file.
